


Insomniac

by mandolinia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Love, Insomnia, Kid Fic, Kidlock, M/M, Nightmares, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandolinia/pseuds/mandolinia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reasons why Sherlock Holmes doesn't sleep at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightmares (Prologue?)

**Author's Note:**

> First fic! Thanks for reading :) I'm bored recently so have decided to write this as a way to pass the time until exams. Updates will be infrequent but chapters long after this first one, hopefully :) Cheers!
> 
> P.S - I'm doing this for fun but if anyone does want to give me any criticism, be my guest, please! The rating is for later chapters by the way, the earlier ones will be cute and nice but I will give warnings in my notes, just in case things get a bit iffy. Might change the rating if needs be.

It was hot.

That's all Sherlock Holmes could think about - hell, he could barely breathe! Sticky, sweltering heat that seemed to grasp every crevice of his body and produce an uncomfortable wetness that irritated him. He scowled, staring up at the pale ceiling shrouded in darkness. He could hear Mycroft next door, deep in an REM cycle. His parents were out, leaving the two young boys in their small Yorkshire bungalow for the evening. Mycroft had subsequently tormented Sherlock; making him drink salted water, eat a sauce which was mainly composed of vinegar and pickle juice and forcing him to do the unthinkable - watch some cheesy romance film the likes of which Sherlock couldn't even believe existed.

Sherlock had woken from a nightmare. He couldn't remember going to sleep - nowadays he simply tries to stay awake for the longest amount of time possible before he inevitably passes out in utter exhaustion. Sweat had made the thin bedsheet uncomfortably moist and the heavy duvet on top of him was suffocating him.

Exactly what the nightmares were about, Sherlock could never say. Sometimes it was common, 6 year-old stuff and others he would be forced to choose which of his family to save, or watch himself be cut open by men with jaws wider than is possible. The latter dreams were the worst. He would feel paralysed, forced to watch himself strapped onto a table, pale skin again cool metal, have his skin split and his organs rearranged. Sometimes when he woke up he could  _feel_ the cool scalpel pressing harder and harder into his skin until his flesh gave way and in sunk the instrument.

Sometimes he could see faces in his walls. The misshapen cottage was crumbling and morphing and he dreamt that faces were pressing to get out, hundreds upon thousands of souls trapped in the walls of the house. The only dream he can ever remember waking up and sobbing about was the one where Mycroft dies.

But we won't talk about that one.

Little boys shouldn't dream about that.

Sherlock was starting school tomorrow, he remembered. His best outfit was hung on the door already; his best jeans, shoes scuffed to perfection and a plain t-shirt that his mother had ironed, then ironed again then re-ironed. Sherlock wanted to wear something smarter but Mummy refused to buy him those nice shoes he saw in Debenhams, or that lovely jacket he had happened upon during the trip through the market. 

Little boys don't wear smart shoes and suits.

He wasn't tired anymore. The nightmares always deprived him of sleep, usually until the sun first started to slip through the mountains on the horizon. Then his eyes would start to slip and his breathing would slow and he wouldn't dream of surgical masks or falling 12 year-olds.

Sherlock awoke to his mother singing in the kitchen. He'd fallen asleep, god knows when. The smell of sausages and bacon and all the unhealthy but delicious food you could ever dream of drifted in through his bedroom door. He got out of bed with sleep in his eyes and his dark hair sticking up and his pyjamas crumpled and somehow was actually feeling quite optimistic about today. For all the shit life could throw at him, he had a feeling that today might be different.

He took one step forward and ultimately slipped on his pet rat, stomping the life out of it with a squeak and the organs out of it with a squelch. His foot shot out from under him and his head thwacked again the solid wooden floor.

Maybe not today, Sherlock though, as he cradled his head in pain.


	2. John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6 + 8 years old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter? Yay! Undoubtedly I will lose enthusiasm as ATM I am posting these for myself. And myself is not a good critic.
> 
> P.S - After this one I will be skipping a few years in between each chapter because it will be boring as fuuuuuuck to describe the daily life of a six year old. If you are reading, I promise it will get interesting! All Johnlock and awkward kissing and fluff :D

Milton Primary School was a tiny little building in a tiny little village surrounded by screaming kids, colourful chalk on pavements and lots of mothers hastily kissing their kids goodbye.

Sherlock Holmes  _hated_ it.

Unfortunately, there were no private schools in this cesspool - not that Mummy would be able to pay the tuition - so Sherlock was having to cope with  _public school._ Ugh. He felt repulsed just thinking about it. No doubt some snotty little brat would cover his jeans in Crayola and saliva by lunchtime. He stared down at the blue denim in resignation, imagining them streaked with red and orange and-

A rugby ball colliding with his head pulled him out of his artistic daydream. His mother gasped and cradled his head to her leg, furiously rubbing here the ball had hit as if that would somehow cure the dull throbbing. On the contrary, her acrylic nails catching and clawing his head surprisingly did not lessen his pain.

'Sorry! Oh-my-god-I'm-sorry!' came a rushed yell from his right side. Sherlock could just about hear him through the dull ringing.

'It's okay, don't worry about it,' Mummy spoke.

A slightly taller blonde-haired boy appeared in front of Sherlock. Mud-streaked and sweaty, he was exactly the type of person he had wanted to avoid.

'It's fine,' Sherlock grunted, yanking his head out of his mum's hold and grabbed his rucksack from her hands, shouldering it.

'Bye then, Sherly!' Mummy called. Sherlock waved and began to walk towards the entrance of the school. He wanted to check out the science lab before class. Oh, god, did they even have a science lab!?

The boy was walking alongside him, Sherlock noticed after an embarrassingly long time. He wondered why. Maybe it was some sort of residual guilt? There would be no need for that, he had already told the boy he was fine. He risked a sideways glance at the boys worn jeans and slightly too small t-shirt. He obviously came from around here - his family didn't earn enough to buy him new stuff and his jeans had been hemmed three times. Hand-me-downs.

'So, uh... I'm John,' the boy said.

'Sherlock.'

'What?'

'Sherlock.'

'What is that, a book? A label?'

'It's my name.'

'Oh... ohh. Right. Sorry. Sherlock. Sher-lock. Sherrrrlock. Sheeeeeer-lock. Sherloooock. Sherlook. Sher-'

'Please stop,' Sherlock groaned. 

John laughed and pinked slightly. 'Sorry. 'S'just an odd name, that's all. We don't get odd names around here. All Marys and Ryans and Mollys and Gregs. Ooh, we got a Jennie once - ie, not y! That was weird.'

Sherlock looked at John's grinning face with a confused expression. Was he serious? Was there so little to do here that names were the most exciting thing happening? Oh, god. He was in hell. He was going to die of boredom before he even reached ten! 'Shouldn't you be getting back to your hockey match?' he asked.

'Er... rugby, actually. And no, I think they'll live without me for a few minutes. Besides, you seem interesting, Sherlock...'

'Holmes.'

'Holmes. Right, of course.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Holmes? Because... because you jus-'

'No, no, I mean that I seem interesting. Why?'

Sherlock was genuinely confused as to why anyone would find him interesting. Sherlock was Sherlock. He was under no illusions about himself; apart from an abnormally advanced brain he was less than average in height, looks and personality. Mycroft said so himself - Sherlock was simply just not friendly. It was precisely the opposite. At his last school, Sherlock had earned the nickname of 'Arse-bollocks' before the bell had even rang. The kids didn't even know  what it meant, they had just been told by their parents that it was a bad word and so used it to describe Sherlock. It wasn't even creative.

But John just grinned and cocked his head, hair flopping over his forehead.

'You have an eye hanging out of your backpack.'

**

Sherlock had already gotten on the nerves of several pupils, Margory the Dinner Lady, Ted the Caretaker and Mr Pinkerton, Ms Weatherby and Mr Farthe. John had simply laughed every single time.

Sherlock found he quite liked him.

The school work was less than desirable. There was no science lab - science was barely on the curriculum! He had already been moved up a year to be placed in John's class, but the headmistress had said that to move him up any further would disrupt the school. What an utter farce. He was clearly intelligent beyond his years - although showed signs of autism, which the counsellor has already pointed out after he mentioned her affair with the deputy head. The  _female_ deputy head.

Throughout all of this, John had sat with him and showed him where to hang up his bag and where to sit and who was mean and who would give you their muffin if you did their homework. He had proven to be not useful in the slightest, but there was something about the scruffy 8 year old that reminded him of a Labrador puppy, and Sherlock loved puppies. 

'I've got ham. Normally I have tuna but there was none in Tesco so my mum had to get ham. I don't  _don't_ like it, but I don't  _like_  it. I do like...'

Sherlock had just tuned out John's ridiculous commentary on sandwiches and stared out across the playground. It was miserable but the children didn't care. The girls grouped by the wooden playground while the boys wrestled on the soggy mud. John had insisted on staying with him so he wouldn't get 'lonely'.

Sherlock wasn't sure whether John was referring to him or himself.

To be completely honest though, Sherlock was sort of glad he had company. He was always an isolated child and Mycroft had never liked it so it was a nice change. However, the talk about sandwiches was abhorrent.

'Why don't you go play rugby now?' Sherlock asked.

John shrugged, then continued when Sherlock seemed dissatisfied with it. 'I dunno. I don't fancy it, I guess.'

'But you play rugby a lot.'

'Well... yeah.'

'Why are you not playing it now then?'

'I just don't want to. You can get sick of stuff you do every single day, can't you?' John said, seemingly pondering Sherlock's inquisition, but in all reality was probably just thinking about whether to have lasagne or shepherd's pie tonight.

'Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.'


	3. Prepubescent Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10 + 12 
> 
> "A girl kissed me. I think she's my... girlfriend."
> 
> "What do you need a girlfriend for? You've got me!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a fantastic comment off some fantastic person so I'm writing another! Have been verrrrrry busy with GCSE's lately so I apologise. Will be very busy as well up until 3rd or 4th week of May as that's when they'll end :)  
> (Sorry about these chapters, they seem to be reeeeeeaaaaaally boring but I'm just trying to establish their relationship and for the life of me I cannot think of things for them to do! Sorry! Next one will pick up - high school time!!!)

Sherlock was bored. Normally he would just ring John but John had decided to be an arsehole and go visit his great-aunt Mildred or long-lost uncle Peter or _who the fuck cares_.

All Sherlock cared about was John being here to stop him being bored, and now he wasn't even here, so what was he supposed to care about? His hair, according to Mycroft, who was babbling incessantly from the couch.  


'It's positively unruly, Sherlock, all you need is a haircut!'  


'I don't want one.'

'Mummy will be annoyed.'

'We both know she won't, Mycroft. Besides, John will be calling soon so I can't possibly afford to be out of the house for any uncertain length of time.'

Sherlock leapt off their worn sofa and began pacing, absent-mindedly blowing strands of dark hair out of his eyes. After a relatively short growth spurt (John was still taller than him), all of Sherlock's trousers had begun to hover just above his ankles. Mycroft noticed but, preoccupied with Greg, did not comment. And Sherlock simply did not care.

'Why don't you invite John to stay over, Sherlock, dear?' wondered Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock was about to snap at her with some obviously witty retort but pondered for a moment.

'What do you do at sleepovers?' he asked.

'Sleep.' Mycroft snorted.

'I've never known someone to make so much noise or jump up and down so much when they _sleep_ during sleepovers,' Sherlock quipped, sneeking a smirk at his older brother. At 17, Mycroft was in the height of his hormonal teenage stage and had begun seeing Greg, a grubby, middle-class sod who brought Sherlock chocolate.

Mycroft sputtered, going bright red. 'Sherlock!'

The boy in question spun out of the room and bounded up the stairs, boisterous, cackling laughter trailing behind him.

**

'When will you be back?'

'Mum says about 5 but maybe later if there's traffic.'

'Was it boring?'

The pause made Sherlock stop and think, and he could almost hear the smile in John's voice when he next spoke. 'It... It was good.'

'What?'

What?' John sounded taken aback.

'Something happened, didn't it? Tell me! I demand you tell me!'

John laughed, and Sherlock's ears tinged red. 'I dunno.'

'Yes, you do. Tell me!'

'Alright, fine. A girl kissed me. I think she's my... girlfriend.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's giggle. Giggle! He'd never heard anything so absurd.

'What do you need a girlfriend for? You've got me!' Sherlock grumbled. He knew how irrational he was being, but something about a girl kissing John made something in Sherlock's stomach twist and knot. His throat felt like someone was shoving an orange down his oesophagus.

'Sherlock!' John laughed. 'You can't be my girlfriend?'

'And why not?' Sherlock replied indignantly.

'Because.'

'Because...?'

'Just because.'

Sherlock tutted loudly, announced he was going and slammed the phone down on the hook. The conversation with John had thoroughly spoiled his mood and he couldn't even figure out why it had annoyed him so much.

Sherlock Holmes couldn't figure something out. It was unheard of.

He didn't care for it.

He rolled onto his back on the large double bed that Mycroft hibernated in frequently after stuffing himself with food for the harsh nights he spent without Grant. He had gained approximately (precisely) 7.3 pounds after his last boyfriend had dumped him in a fantastically stupid fashion; he had gotten one of his mates to tell Mycroft.

Sherlock had answered the door and deduced immediately what the greasy, spotty boy held in his hand (a letter written by Mycrofts 'belevod' explaining himself) and what said letter contained (Sorry mate, I'm seeing Cindy now.). Mycroft had sobbed in his room for a day or two, then reappeared seeming even more uptight than usual. Then Gabe had knocked on the door with a pepperoni pizza that Sherlock had ordered, and all of a sudden Mycroft was all blushing and smiling and laughing with Gavin.

Sherlock must find out what his name really was.

As much as Sherlock disliked this fiend doing some unspeakable things to his brother in a locked bedroom whilst ACDC thudded through the walls, he disliked Mycroft being treated like shit by unworthy dicks. Plus, Gregs family had a shop and access to an immeasurable amount of Twix and Galaxy and – _ohmygod –_ Boosts.

Even now, Sherlock could tell Mycroft had a total of fifteen lovebites; four on his neck, hidden by a scarf; five on his chest, and; six in a certain place – judging by the odd walk - that Sherlock didn't want to think about.

'John coming around soon, then?' Mycroft asked when he appeared in the doorway.

'No. Maybe. Oh, I don't know!' Sherlock snapped, slamming a pillow over his head and huffing heavily into the soft fabric.

'Had a domestic?'

'Shut up.'

'Alright. Mrs Hudson's cooking, anyway. You know she always does enough for John.'

'I know.'

'Alright then.'

Sherlock waited until Mycroft had left before uncovering his face and staring glumly up at his ceiling.

**

'Hey.'

'Hey.'

'Is that pork I smell?'

'Obviously.'

'Look, Sherlock... I'm sorry.'

'It's alright,' Sherlock grinned.

John had learned to accept that it just wasn't in Sherlocks nature to apologise, and that was okay.

'Wanna come see my experiment? I'm testing the outcome of excessive heat on an ant hill I acquired from the garden. I think they might be some variation of fire ants because...'

Sherlock had already begun walking up the stairs before John could answer, so the blonde just quietly shut the door and jogged upstairs, eager to see what these ants could do.

**

Sherlock lay awake that night, thinking about John. He knew he should have apologised, but he didn't know how to apologise because he wasn't quite sure why he'd gotten so mad in the first place. It didn't seem to be justified at all. However, John had rode home on his squeaky bicycle without so much as a raising of a middle finger, so all seemed to be well on the Watson frontier.

Sherlock didn't sleep well that night.


End file.
